Out on the Town
by ShirleyAnn66
Summary: Alec Hardy does not like bars. Well, really, he doesn't like people, and people are in bars, lots of people, and he's never comfortable enough to let his guard down in order to enjoy himself. He's seen too much and trusts too little. Yet, here he is, in a bar in Weymouth, with loud music and people and attractive women.


**Word count: **2,894

**Warnings:** Spoilers for seasons 1 and 2. Light-hearted.

**Summary: **Hardy dancing. I KNOW! Hardy/Miller, so be warned.

**Disclaimers: **In case you're wondering: I don't own Broadchurch, although I'm rather desperately jonesing for an Alec Hardy of my very own (grumpy bastard that he is). The show belongs to ITV and Alec Hardy belongs to David Tennant, although I'm willing to work out a timeshare arrangement.

**Warning:** I may have over-done/misused British slang…I'm Canadian, so please point out my mistake(s) and forgive me.

**A/N:** I couldn't help myself. I saw a YouTube video of David Tennant dancing and he's is just too frickin' cute to resist. That, and I just want Hardy to be appreciated, have some fun and let loose a little bit.

Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

* * *

Alec Hardy does not like bars.

Well, really, he doesn't like people, and people are in bars, lots of people, and he's never comfortable enough to let his guard down in order to enjoy himself. He's seen too much and trusts too little.

Yet, here he is, in a bar in Weymouth, with loud music and people and attractive women he'd be tempted to buy drinks for if it wasn't for the fact that he'd fuck it up because he has no people skills and even fewer flirting skills. He hesitates on the threshold, feeling distinctly uncomfortable and more and more irritable because his presence here is all bloody Miller's fault. Her and her bloody birthday, and her great circle of new friends she's built in Broadchurch in the six months since Joe Miller's conviction and her heroic actions in bringing the Sandbrook killers to justice while he'd been under the knife at the most crucial moment.

Story of his life, he supposes, and he doesn't begrudge Miller her accolades; she's more than earned them, after all, and brought him some measure of peace.

Now Joe's convicted, the Sandbrook killers were sentenced last month, he and Miller were exonerated of any wrong-doing, and Miller is determined to be happy. So, she invited her friends and colleagues—past and present—to this bash, and, because she's Ellie, she included Hardy under one condition: "For God's sake, don't wear a suit, else I'll send you home! You must have at least one t-shirt and a pair of jeans! If not, go out and bloody well buy some!"

Which is why he's now here, in a bar, clad in the soft gray t-shirt he usually sleeps in, a pair of faded jeans he hasn't worn in years, and old trainers that had been hidden at the back of his front closet. He feels vulnerable and naked beneath his black trench coat, and awkward as all hell as he scans the crowd. He doesn't see anyone familiar and sighs. He's tempted to turn around and go home, but he promised Miller he'd make an appearance, and he's not sure if he's ahead of them or if they've buggered off somewhere else and are simply taking the piss with him.

He wanders to the bar. If it's the latter, they'll have left him a bill to pay.

There's nothing, so he sends a text to Miller, orders a tonic water, and turns to survey the place, wondering if he's just missed her. You'd think a group of coppers determined to have a good time would be easy to spot.

He nods at the bartender when his drink arrives, then returns his attention to the room. Some habits can't be broken, he thinks ruefully, before his eye is caught by four women at a table, looking in his direction and whispering excitedly, most likely about the bartender working behind him.

He sips his drink with a distinct lack of enjoyment, thinking he can't blame them as his gaze slides past them. The bartender is a handsome man, big and brawny with bulging muscles Hardy has never been able to achieve, even when he isn't sick.

He doesn't see Miller and her friends, and she hasn't responded to his text. He sighs as he turns his back to the room.

He's never liked bars.

He's startled when the bartender places a glass in front of him, and Hardy shoots him a puzzled frown.

"I've barely touched this one, mate," he says. He knows it's only tonic water—bloody doctor's bloody orders because if ever he needed a drink, it's right now—but what is he going to do with two of them?

"From the ladies at the table over there," the bartender says tilting his head in a direction over Hardy's right shoulder.

Hardy turns and sees the four women he'd noticed earlier smiling and lifting their glasses in salute.

For a moment, he's confused, frozen, honestly unable to determine what he's supposed to do or say. He feels heat creep up his cheeks and he awkwardly nods before he turns back to the bar.

The bartender is laughing at his discomfort, and Hardy glares.

"You should be flattered, mate," the bartender says. "Those birds come in here regular, and you're the first bloke they've bought a drink for."

Hardy blesses the stubble on his face and the dim lighting because it hides his deepening flush.

"I am," he mutters and sips his drink.

His phone buzzes with a text.

_Late leaving now accident has slowed traffic get there when we get there._

He scowls and tosses his phone on the bar. No point in leaving, he thinks sourly, since there's only one road in and out of Broadchurch, so he isn't going to get home any sooner than they're going to get here. Only what the bloody hell is he supposed to do, sitting here in a bloody bar with two bloody tonic waters?

He hates bars.

Almost as much as he hates tonic water.

"DI Hardy?"

He groans and turns with a scowl which changes to wide-eyed surprise when he sees the speaker is one of the women toasting him earlier.

For a moment he simply stares, blank and confused, then says, "Yeah."

The woman lights up with delight. She's pretty, with long ginger hair tumbling over her shoulders in artful waves, and she looks far too young to be buying ruined old men like him drinks in bars.

"We knew it was you! My sisters and I—we're court watchers. We followed the Danny Latimer case, and, of course, Sandbrook. We think you're brilliant! We wondered…since you seem to be alone…"

They both glance over to the bar as Hardy's phone buzzes. He gives the woman an apologetic glance as he reads the text.

_You better not be pouting we'll be there ASAP_

He glances back at the woman, but can't think of what to say.

She looks a little worried. "Even if you're waiting for someone, we…" she glances at her companions, then squares her shoulders and says, "we wonder if you'd like to join us."

He stares, dark eyes huge as he struggles to figure out what to say.

"What?" is what comes out.

The woman giggles and twirls a tendril of hair around her finger, nervous now.

"Come join us while you're waiting for your friends." She shrugs. "We're not very clever, but we're fun, and we promise not to ask you anything about the cases you've worked."

"Then what will we talk about?" he asks, honestly curious.

She takes an inviting step back, and he almost unconsciously slides off his stool to tower over her.

"We'll figure something. I mean, do you watch the telly?" she asks. "Who's your favourite football team?" She shrugs. "Or you can sit and listen to us witter about our husbands and boyfriends, or lack thereof."

"I'm a grumpy bastard," he warns, "and more sarcastic than I mean to be."

She laughs. "We know. Court watchers, remember? I'll tell you now, we're going to piss you off, but we think you're fantastic, and there's room at our table. There's no need to be alone."

He's following her almost before he realizes it, vaguely aware of the thumbs up the bartender is discreetly giving him. They fetch up beside the table where she introduces everyone with a broad smile.

"Jenny, Mary, Rose, and I'm Kat."

He nods uncomfortably, sits, and tries to remember what it's like to just talk to pretty women when he isn't interrogating them and trying to determine just how involved they are in a murder.

"How have you been since your surgery?" one of the women asks. Rose, he thinks.

"How the bloody hell—" he sputters, then stops, blinking. Probably not the best first impression he's ever made. Not the worst, either, though, when he thinks about it.

"You're a bit of a celebrity," another of the sisters—Jenny—says. "It was in the papers when you went in. We all a bit groupie about you. In a completely non-creepy, non-threatening way, of course."

He feels blank, like he can't quite make out the words.

"Groupie?" he says faintly.

His phone buzzes.

_Stop sulking. We'll be there soon and you bloody well better be there!_

He looks at his eagerly watching companions, not sure if they're sincere or if this is some elaborate prank. Then he thinks about his life for the last four years and thinks he's certainly been humiliated far more than being tricked into believing four beautiful women were being nice to him.

He just wouldn't make any passes.

"Awright," he says. "Just let me answer this text."

They nod, and he texts Miller before he slides the phone into his coat pocket and turns to the women.

"So, what do you lot do for a living?"

The four women are sisters, two married, one with a serious boyfriend, one single. All are gainfully employed. They're bright and friendly, young and lovely, sparkling in the dim light of the bar, untouched by the darkness Hardy has been living with for so long. They're funny, kind and warm, and seem to genuinely like him, even when he forgets himself and speaks sharply or sarcastically, or just gives them some grumbling, grumpy response to a question.

Time ticks away, and the DJ starts playing music, Miller and her friends still haven't arrived, and the women laugh and tease him without malice. He finds himself relaxing, even going so far as chuckling a little at their banter.

Maybe bars aren't so bad after all.

"Do you dance?" Kat asks as a new song starts, and she and her sisters look excited, already getting to their feet.

Hardy blinks, taken aback. He'd forgotten about the dancing part.

"Well, I—"

But Rose and Jenny are already tugging him to his feet, and he only has time to sling his coat over his chair before he's dragged to the dance floor.

He's gawky and spindly, towering over his companions, and he feels somehow naked in his t-shirt and jeans. He doesn't really know what to do or where to look, because he hasn't danced in years, not since he and Tess were still in love. But his companions are laughing and don't seem to care as they dance around and with him, almost like he's a maypole, which strikes even him as amusing.

Nobody's watching them, and he relaxes. The song has an easy rhythm to follow, and his body, so long his enemy, fragile and unreliable, does what he asks it to do. He smiles, both because his body is his own again, and because the women have drawn him into their circle, singing the lyrics off-key and at the top of their lungs.

* * *

Ellie is anxious as she and her friends finally convoy into the parking lot of the bar. Hardy hasn't texted her since he promised to wait for them, and that was well over an hour ago. She groans as she gets out of her car, knowing he's going to be a bear. He's probably been sitting morosely at the bar snarling at everyone, and she wonders if she should have asked the doctor for a remote control for that bloody pacemaker so she could put him down for a nap when he gets too grumpy.

"He's going to be impossible," she mutters as she joins her companions.

"Well, he's only going to buy one round and leave, anyway," says the pretty young thing beside her. She's a new constable, knowing Hardy by reputation and the few stone-faced encounters she's had with him since his surgery. "I mean, he's old, right? He'll be ready for bed-time soon."

Ellie glares at the girl. "He's not that old," she snaps, because he's only a couple of years older than her, and the youngster beside her is making her feel positively ancient.

They walk in to the crowd and noise, and she winces, because Hardy's been putting up with this shit for the last two hours and she only hopes he doesn't get unbearable until she's had a drink.

The place is packed, and she's looking around for a table, wishing she'd told Hardy to get one, because she knows he'd never think of it himself. She's resigning herself to sitting at the bar when a young woman materializes at her side.

"DS Ellie Miller?"

"Yes," she replies cautiously.

"You look just like your pictures on the telly. We've got a table over here."

Ellie frowns. "Who are you?"

"I'm Mary. Hardy noticed you come in and I volunteered to show you the table."

"Hardy?" Ellie sputters even as she waves at her companions to follow her.

They fetch up to several tables pulled together. The surface is covered with half-empty glasses, and what appears to be Hardy's coat is flung over the back of a chair.

"Make yourself at home," Mary says, "then come join us on the dance floor. I've got to get back; I love this song!"

She waves and leaves to wend her way through the crowd. Ellie watches her go, but is distracted by her friends scavenging for another table and more chairs, and ordering drinks from the harried waitress who was rushing past.

She's settled in her chair and is beginning to wonder where Hardy is, and whether she needs to send one of the men to the loo to check for him, when the music changes. The crowd on the dance floor thins out, and Mary and two other women come to the table, panting a little, grinning widely.

Mary says, "All settled? These are my sisters, Jenny and Rose, and Kat's still on the dance floor over there. This is her absolutely favourite song, and she has no one to dance with, so she's taking advantage of a willing man while she can."

Ellie looks where Mary is pointing, and her jaw drops so far it actually hurts, because there, gracefully twirling a lovely ginger-haired woman around the dance floor, is DI Alec Bloody Hardy.

Wearing a gray t-shirt that seems to tug and cling to his chest whenever he moves.

In snug jeans, faded in all the right places to emphasize his still far-too-slender physique.

Wearing trainers.

And moving those narrow hips in a way Ellie didn't even think he knew how to do, and which is probably still illegal in the smaller villages.

"Maybe he's not as old as I thought," the young constable beside her says, and Ellie doesn't have the strength to respond, because there are odd, hormonal reactions going on in her body that she vaguely remembers from the early years with Joe, and which she definitely hasn't felt since Joe's arrest. She's vaguely aware of Mary and her sisters heading to the loo, but she's almost mesmerized by Hardy's arseand that hip swivel, unable to pull her eyes away.

Who the hell knew? she thinks, stunned.

Then Larry leans over and says, "He's a sly one, that one. Four birds? Good thing he got his ticker fixed, or it would kill him for sure!"

That snaps her out of her haze, and she smacks Larry's arm as the song ends. Mary, Rose and Jenny return from the loo, and Hardy and Kat fetch up at the table. Hardy's smiling, actually smiling, eyes sparkling, and she notices dimples in his cheeks for the first time.

"Awright," says Kat, "you lived up to the your side of the bargain. The next four rounds are on us!"

Ellie's companions cheer, and she smiles, but she's too gob-smacked to really appreciate the gesture.

She's even more gob-smacked when Kat puts her hands on either side of Hardy's face and presses a firm kiss against his mouth.

"Thank you, Hardy. You're a good sport, and with moves like yours, you're welcome back any time."

"Na, na, na! I only did it so I won't go broke buying drinks for this lot."

"Regardless," Kat turns to the newcomers, and grins at the women. "I've proven he can dance, ladies."

Ellie's smile becomes strained. "Oh, is that what you call it?"

Hardy rolls his eyes. "Just for that, Miller, you get to suffer next," and he pulls her protesting from her chair and drags her to the dance floor, where he dips and whirls her so expertly, she's too surprised to keep up the pretence of insulting him.

Besides, he's doing that damn hip swivel-twirl-thrust-thing again, and she's not quite sure how he's doing it, but between that, and his sparkling eyes, she's getting sudden, vivid images of throwing him against a wall and peeling that damn shirt and those damn jeans off of him, because bloody hell, he's _doing _something to her. She just thanks God he's stopped grinning because she wouldn't be accountable for her actions if she had to resist those bloody dimples, too.

He must notice the stunned look on her face, because he grins again, slowly, and his dimple flashes.

"Don't worry," he says as the song ends, "I'll be back to being a pain in the arse tomorrow. Think of this as your birthday present."

He puts his hand on the small of her back to guide her off the floor, and for the first time in their relationship, she doesn't shrug his touch away.


End file.
